


this, and my heart beside—

by bucketofrice (epigraphs)



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: (not an abba fic lol dw), Alternate Universe - Art Gallery, F/M, Melancholy, dancing in the rain..., impressionist art, pining from afar, skating parent cameos, soft art things, walks along the seine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 16:49:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19233172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epigraphs/pseuds/bucketofrice
Summary: He sees her for the first time on a Thursday in May when the sky is dark and the clouds are angrily spewing rain and thunder.





	this, and my heart beside—

**Author's Note:**

> hello! *waves* long time no see... whoops.
> 
> i have no good excuses except for, life happened, and here we are now. this little au wouldn't be possible without the lovely humans of the guild cheering me on (thanks goes especially to eastfromeden for the french, and only_because3, awakeanddreaming and restlessvirtue for the encouragement), and fairwinds09, who appreciates softboi scoot just as much as i do. title is from "it's all i have to bring today" by emily dickinson.
> 
> i hope you enjoy xx

He sees her for the first time on a Thursday in May when the sky is dark and the clouds are angrily spewing rain and thunder. The pitter-patter of raindrops on the vaulted ceilings has been a constant companion all day, and the overhead lights are working double-duty to cast the paintings in their familiar soft hue. From his post in the corner of the gallery, Scott surveys the room every two minutes, right on schedule.

The slate-grey walls match the weather today, he thinks idly, as his eyes scan the gilded frames and throngs of visitors that pass in and out of the hall, whispering to one another in hushed tones as they walk around the space in circles. He smiles when a small boy runs in — he can’t be more than five — and his mother catches him by the collar of his shirt, lest he slip away. _“Maman, maman!”_ he shouts, and his mother makes a shushing sound. _“Regarde ça!”_ He points a chubby finger at a painting, a nature scene in pastels, with blue skies and rolling hills. His mother crouches down beside him and they study it together.

Scott’s gaze wanders, past a tour group and a guide with a little flag that she waves hastily in the air, past the regulars who stand in front of one frame for what seems like hours, losing themselves in a scene. It lands on her, and his breath hitches.

She’s sitting on the bench in the middle of the gallery, sketchbook on her lap and charcoals in hand. She’s staring in concentration at a painting on the wall, her head quirked just so, and she furrows her brow every time her view is interrupted. Her head dips down when she starts sketching again, and he takes in her raven hair, her petite frame, her delicate features.

Her posture is striking — even on a hard bench in a crowded room her back is straight, her muscles taut, ankles crossed daintily — and he can’t help but wonder which of the paintings across from her has caught her eye.

Scott knows many people like her: amateur painters, art students, historians, hobby enthusiasts. They flock to galleries and set up shop for hours, studying and emulating the greats. The Impressionist Gallery of the Musée d’Orsay is a favourite, and Scott has seen many a painter come and go in the year and a half he’s worked here. Sometimes he wonders if their own work will be bought by the museum someday, or hang in another gallery, somewhere in the world. He hopes so.

He starts his half-hourly lap around the room, checking all the paintings and the doors as he weaves in and out of the crowd. An elderly woman asks for the washroom, and he points her down the hall. After he’s told a young couple how to get to the Art Deco pieces, he makes it over to the bench the woman is sitting on. He sneaks a glance over her shoulder at her sketchbook — a tiny peek, just a split second — and he smiles.

Degas. Of course. She’s painting his star, _L’Étoile,_ and it seems fitting somehow. He thinks she could be a dancer; she looks graceful enough for it, and strong, and determined and fierce. Charcoal strokes appear on the page before her, soft and sure, and the dancer takes shape on the paper.

On the wall across, the solitary dancer on the canvas is striking and luminous, ethereal among the other figures, all soft lines and grace. The viewpoint is elevated, and the dancer's skirt seems to vanish under the stage lights, which cast pale violet shadows on the smooth, powdered skin of her bare arms and chest. Degas’ strokes were swift and sure, almost calligraphic, and Scott can sense the movement on the stage.

He wouldn’t consider himself an art expert — far from it — but ever since he started the job, he’s been staring at paintings for most of the day, and he’s picked up a thing or two. He tears his eyes from the woman on the bench and continues his lap, eventually settling back into the corner for the remainder of his shift.

It’s a Thursday, so the museum is open late, and Scott dutifully waits in his gallery for the new groups of visitors to file in and out. He looks over to her bench every once in a while and smiles when he finds she hasn’t moved an inch and is still looking intently between her pad and the wall. It’s endearing, somehow.

It’s five past nine when he looks at his watch and realizes the time. She’s still sat there, but they clear soon and close a half hour later, and Scott has to ask her to go. Truthfully, he finds himself wishing she could stay a while longer, but rules are rules.

 _“Excusez-moi, madame,”_ he says, clearing his throat. She looks up at him with wide eyes, as if he startled her out of a dream. _“Le musée va fermer dans dix minutes.”_ He cringes a little at the thick accent he’s yet to shake, even after two years of living in the country, and hopes she won’t notice.

 _“Oh,”_ she says, _“Désolée, je ne regardais pas l’heure.”_ Her accent is far less noticeable than his own, but there all the same, and he gives her a smile. She packs up her sketchbook and charcoals, slipping them into a canvas tote bag, and gets up from the bench.

“Have a nice evening,” he says, in English, on a whim.

She looks back over her shoulder and smiles. “You too, thank you.”

That night, Scott locks up his gallery with a smile on his face, humming a tune. Even the persistent rain and gloom he finds when he walks out onto the darkened streets of Paris can’t shake his mood.

* * *

The next morning, Scott downs his coffee in the staff room in record time — he was nearly late after his neighbour’s cat had to be rescued from a fire escape — and dons his badge. If his colleagues notice his good mood, they don’t mention it, or chalk it up to him being _le canadien_ of the group. When he first started, he’d had to laugh at the way the French thought all Canadians must be — polite, well-mannered, hockey loving and full of beer — and then admit, with a chuckle, that most of the stereotypes did in fact apply.

He takes up his post in the gallery, still humming the same tune, and settles in for the day. If he throws a surreptitious glance over at the bench the woman sat on yesterday, well then he’s just being thorough, that’s all. And if, upon finishing his shift for the day, he finds she still hasn’t appeared and there’s an inexplicable ache in his chest… well there’s no real explanation for that.

It’s another week until he sees her again.

He’s just assumed his perch for the late shift on Thursday when she catches his eye. She’s back on the bench again, sketchbook in hand, and he can’t fight the smile that blooms on his face at the sight of her. Her head is tilted toward the page and he notices her hair is gathered in a neat bun at the nape of her neck.

Part of him wishes it were loose, framing her face in soft curls, errant tendrils shielding her eyes from view. Other parts of him relish the fact that he can rake his eyes over the arched column of her neck, pale and freckled. And then there’s the reasonable part of his brain that chastises him for ogling a stranger.

It’s the part that wins out in the end, and Scott regretfully tears his eyes from the beautiful stranger in favour of maintaining his job (and his dignity).

Like the week before, she doesn’t stray from her bench, only occasionally stops sketching to pull out a new piece of charcoal or a different pencil. She checks her phone too, once, twice, thrice, and no, it’s not like he’s counting. He’s just observant. Security guards are meant to be, after all.

Five past nine rolls around again, and Scott looks up from his own phone to notice that she’s still deep in thought, wholly unaware of the world around her. He smiles to himself before taking the few steps to her bench. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he says, in English this time. She looks up at his words, clearly caught out by the language.

Understanding washes over her face as soon as she sees him, and he’s momentarily rendered speechless by her eyes. They’re the most beautiful green he’s ever seen, layered and deep like a forest. He thinks he wouldn’t mind getting lost in them forever. “It’s closing, isn’t it?” she says, and he has to snap himself out of it.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Oh, I totally lost track of time again,” she says, shaking her head as she starts packing up. It’s methodical, he notices, the way she puts charcoal in a little metal tin, places tracing paper in her sketchbook so nothing smudges, arranges it all just so. “I can only come on Thursdays, when you’re open late and I work a half day and… well I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.” She lets out a chuckle, wry and self-deprecating.

He nods. “To be honest, I’m glad to be speaking English with someone for a change. Normally I only have to kick very angry elderly French ladies out of the gallery at closing time, and they don’t appreciate the accent or the reprimand.” He winks, and finds his lips quirking upwards into a smile when she breaks out into laughter. He thinks it’s one of the best sounds he’s ever heard.

“Well, I’m happy to be a break in your routine … Scott,” she reads off his nametag, and smiles. She gathers her bag and gets up off the bench. “I’m Tessa.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, for lack of a better thing to say to the perfect stranger whom he’s observed for hours on end.

“You too,” she says, adding “thank you for the time warning” when she glances at her phone.

She’s nearly made it out of the gallery when he shouts after her. “Will I see you next Thursday?” He doesn’t even realize he’s said it till the words hang in the silence between them, heavy and uncertain.

She looks back over her shoulder and tucks a non-existent strand of hair behind her ear. She tilts her head to the side and pretends to consider him for a minute. His heart hammers in his chest, and he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. Finally, she speaks again. “I think you just might.”

With a turn of the heel, she’s off and Scott is left in an empty gallery, surrounded by slate-grey walls, gilded frames and some of the most renowned art in the world. Yet as he watches her leave, he can’t help but think the most beautiful thing has left the room.

He shakes his head, lets out a chuckle and busies himself with closing up. He gives _L’Étoile_ a passing glance and wonders how it would look with the stranger — Tessa, he reminds himself — on the stage.

* * *

In the weeks that follow, they settle into a kind of routine. Tessa comes to the gallery to paint after work. (She’s been painting for the past two weeks, after a stint with pastels that followed the charcoal.) Scott spares her glances when he can.

At five past nine, when most everyone else has cleared out, he heads to her bench and they chat as she packs up her bag.

He learns she’s an art history PhD candidate at the Sorbonne, following an undergrad and masters at UofT, and that she teaches part-time. He tells her he came to France to help a friend expand a business venture in Lyon. The whole thing went underwater after six months and he’d been too embarrassed to admit it to his parents. A friend of a friend had introduced him to Patrice Lauzon, a fellow Canadian and one of the curators at Orsay, and he’d gotten the security guard job a few weeks later. It’s good work, and he likes Paris more than he thought he would.

She tells him she might just be a little bit glad his friend was a lousy business partner and he had to move to the city, and he can feel the blush creep up his neck at the words.

He’s begun to push back the timing of his trip to the bench — five minutes one week, ten the next — because the museum might clear at quarter past but it doesn’t close until a half hour later. He knows the guests are meant to leave at clear, but he doesn’t think having one person in the gallery for a few minutes longer would cause a fuss. Besides, she’s under his supervision anyway so it’s not like she’d get into any trouble.

And he likes to watch her work. He likes the way her brow knits in concentration and how she pokes her tongue out just the slightest bit when she’s hit a tricky spot. He imagines her tongue in other places sometimes, and thinks about what it would be like to knead the tension out of her shoulders or feel her breath as she whispers something in his ear… and then he gets hot under the collar until he snaps himself out of it and reminds himself she’s just a visitor with whom he happens to make small talk.

She begins to notice that he’s letting her stay just a bit longer than she should, and she thanks him for it one Thursday in June. He says it’s no big deal but she says she’s grateful all the same. After gathering her things, she presses feather-light kisses to each of his cheeks — so very French, he thinks, as he blushes and reciprocates the gesture. When she leaves the gallery with a wave and a “see you next week,” his heart is hammering wildly in his chest.

Next Thursday rolls around and Tessa is nowhere to be seen; Scott is left with a cold and empty feeling. He checks his watch every half hour, then _her_ bench — he’s come to think of it as _hers_ ever since he saw her sitting on it for the second time — then the rest of the gallery. Grisly clouds have gathered over the city again, and Scott notices the slate-grey of the walls and the incessant drumming of the raindrops on the skylights. The gallery feels colder than normal, and he finds himself shivering even though he knows the temperature is the same as it always is. At half-past five he checks his watch one last time.

She still hasn’t come.

He wonders what happened: if she got caught up at work or finished her painting or decided to paint from reference, not the original. Maybe she’s sick, maybe she grew tired of him, maybe she was in an accident, maybe… He has to stop himself at some point and rein it in. It’s no use speculating about something when he has no idea what’s going on.

Still, as five past nine rolls around, he catches himself looking over to her bench to let her know it’s time to think about packing up. He shakes his head when he remembers no one’s there and makes one last lap around the gallery before doing final checks and flicking the light switch. The overhead lights make faint buzzing sounds as they turn off, one by one, and the gallery descends into darkness.

When Scott steps out into the Paris streets, rain is still pouring down in buckets and he realizes he didn’t bring an umbrella to work that morning. He’s drenched within seconds. It’s cold, and it’s dark, and it’s wet, and he knows he’ll catch a cold if he doesn’t hurry to the metro, but he can’t bring himself to care, even though his shirt and pullover cling uncomfortably to his skin and a shiver runs down his spine.

As he walks down the steps into the Solférino station, his head is full of Tessa and he wonders how a near-stranger and an enigmatic smile could so easily take over his heart.

* * *

He’s too scared to check if she’s on her bench next Thursday, so he busies himself doing just about everything else. He’s extra attentive to the older women who ask him questions at a deliberately slow speed (as if his accent means he doesn’t speak any French at all and they’re talking with a child), is more diligent checking the paintings and frames than he’s ever been since his first shift.

Eventually, as he makes another round along the perimeter of the gallery, he can’t put off looking at the bench for any longer. His breath catches in his throat when he realizes she’s there, sitting primly as always, brush in hand. He doesn’t want to disturb her, but he can’t fight the smile that spreads across his face as he walks back to his corner of the gallery and settles in for the rest of his shift.

Like clockwork, he’s by her bench at five past nine and she looks up from her work. “You’re back,” he says, trying to hide the surprise and confusion from his tone. He knows she owes him nothing in ways of an explanation, that he’s probably just a faint acquaintance to her — someone she speaks to for a few minutes to pass the time — that they’re really nothing to each other in the grand scheme of their lives. (He doesn’t allow himself to admit he wishes she were more.)

“I got caught late at work last week,” she says, a hint of apology in her tone. He tries to say something, tell her it’s alright, but she’s quicker. “But look,” she says, holding up her piece, her eyes alight with joy, “the Degas studies are done!”

She’s captured the dancer’s likeness beautifully, he thinks, a perfect mimicry of Degas’ grace. The right side of the piece is all light and warmth, the dancer basks in the spotlight, her head bent gracefully to receive the applause. The left is dark and muddled, a muted black figure stands by the curtains, a watchful, ever-present force. He’s half-hidden in the wings, but imposing all the same, a catalyst for the hurried brushstrokes creeping in unbidden, threatening to swallow her whole.

“It’s gorgeous,” he says, and she blushes, her cheeks turning pink from his praise.

“Thank you.” She flips her sketchbook to another page. It’s the same scene in charcoal, and it’s both softer and harsher than the version he saw before. Another flip and the dancer is detailed in delicate pencil strokes, then in soft pastels, in watercolour and in aquarelle. Every time, she looks just a bit different, like Tessa’s extracted a new layer out of her with every medium she tried.

She tells him she’s studying the Impressionists for her dissertation, focusing on Degas and his dancers. He captured the beauty of the stage, she tells him, the fragility of it all, but also the seedy, dark underbelly of life as a dancer at the turn of the century. The figure in the wings, she explains, is the dancer’s “patron.” She has most likely been driven to sell her body — not out of choice, but out of need — and he is always there, watching, critiquing.

“All her happiness is a farce,” Tessa says, looking wistfully at the page. Reality is inescapable, once the stage lights extinguish and the curtain falls. Tessa shuts the sketchbook and the noise startles Scott out of his reverie. He looks at Tessa with wide eyes and she chuckles softly as she packs up her things. “Thank you,” she says as she hoists her bag onto her shoulder. “For letting me stay late.”

“Of course.” He’s scrambling, trying to find something intelligent to say to this impossibly brilliant woman, and he doesn’t notice she’s stepped forward toward the canvas. She tilts her head and considers it once more.

“How can something so sad be so beautiful?” she muses.

“So beautiful,” he echoes. He hasn’t been looking at the painting at all.

A beat passes and Tessa clears her throat. “I better get going,” she says, looking over at Scott. “It was lovely chatting to you these past few weeks.”

She gives his arm a squeeze and smiles as she starts walking out of the gallery. Scott is left standing there, dumbfounded. She’s done.

If this were a rom-com, Scott thinks, he’d sprint after her, shout “Tessa!” so loudly that it echoed off the gallery walls. She’d stop dead in her tracks and turn around, and he’d sweep her up in his arms and their lips would meet in a searing kiss. If this were a movie, he’d run out of the Orsay in slow motion, bounding down the Paris streets in the moonlight, and catch her just before she slips in a cab. He’d tell her he just had to talk to her one more time, and would she, maybe, want to get a drink with him? They’d stroll along the Seine together, arms linked, and he’d kiss her by a bridge in starlight, while the credits rolled and someone crooned _La Vie en Rose._

But this is not a rom-com, and Tessa’s too far down the hall to hear a thing and Scott still needs to close up for the night. As he flicks the switch and the bulbs turn off, one by one, he thinks about the stage lights extinguishing over the dancer, and the pull of darkness that holds her tight.

* * *

He doesn’t expect to ever see her again. In fact, he very firmly resigns himself to the fact that his late-night conversations with Tessa (he still doesn’t know her last name) are a thing of the past, a fleeting summer almost-romance that never quite got started. A show that flopped before the opening act even began.

Once, on a Thursday in July, he spots a head of raven hair on the bench that will be hers forever, and his heart skips a beat but then the woman turns her head and all he sees is sun-kissed skin unmarred by freckles, and eyes surrounded by owlish purple frames. He curses himself for thinking she would come again, for thinking that she ever saw him as more than just the friendly security guard who happened to be Canadian and chatted with her as she packed up her things.

The summer nights are long and full of starlight and Paris is awash with feeling. He walks home sometimes from his Thursday shifts, past cafés that stay open long after they’re meant to close, couples dotting their outdoor tables, huddled close, whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears. Street musicians play on the banks of the Seine, and men spin women in their arms, dip them low and meet them in searing kisses.

He sees a teenage boy surprise another with a rose, earning him a kiss and a blush and Scott can’t help but smile at blossoming young love. Even his neighbours seem taken under the same spell, and he catches Madame Legrand in the stairwell, giggling like she’s fifteen again. Monsieur Legrand is not far behind and he chuckles as she fumbles with the key to the apartment they’ve shared for forty years.

Patrice, the curator who got him his job at the Orsay, has been especially chipper as of late, and Scott thinks it may have something to do with the visiting scholar from the Sorbonne, Marie-France, and the little girl she sometimes brings along. They drive to Nice for a week and Billie-Rose brings him back seashells she picked out especially for him, wrapped in brown paper and tied up with twine.

Over wine at their apartment Marie (not-so) gently asks him if he’s met a girl, and Scott lets out a hollow laugh. “Almost,” he says, staring intently into his glass and swirling the wine like it’s the Oracle of Delphi, and Marie squeezes his arm and gives him an encouraging smile.

“If it is meant to be, you will find her again, _mon cher,_ ” she says, matter-of-fact, and leans back into her husband’s chest. Patch wraps an arm around her and gently kisses the crown of her hair and Scott wishes it were that easy.

Two weeks later, it’s five past nine and he’s scanning the gallery, about to close up.

He hears steps approaching him from behind and he shakes his head, turning halfway so he can let the person know they’re too late. _“Désolé, le musée va fermer dans dix minutes.”_

“I know.”

He stops dead in his tracks and doesn’t dare face her. It can’t be. She makes her way around so she’s facing him, and he can’t help his eyes going wide or his face going just ever so slightly slack-jawed.

“Hi,” she says, blushing.

“Hey,” Scott says, and then, “what are you doing here?” and he wants to kick himself for it.

She’s not got her usual canvas tote and he thinks she probably didn’t come to the Orsay for painting. He doesn’t dare hope why else she could be there. Tessa is playing with the silver ring on her middle finger, twisting and turning it as she glances at the floor.

“I missed talking with you,” she whispers, the words coming out fast and a little bit jumbled, “and I hoped that maybe we could go somewhere else and talk some more?”

“Yeah,” he says, a little too quickly, a smile spreading over his face. “I just need to close up, but yeah, I’d love that.”

Tessa grins. “I’m glad.”

He closes up in record time and he swears Tessa is smiling from the corner, standing carefully out of view of the hallway so his supervisor doesn’t notice. He checks the paintings with what’s probably less diligence than he should, but hey, it’s not every day that there’s a beautiful girl waiting for him to leave. When the lights do go out, Scott says a quick goodbye to François, the night guard, and then ushers Tessa through the staff entrance, out into the balmy August night.

They walk in companionable silence for a bit, until Scott suggests they head over to the Seine. Strolling along its banks at night is just how he imagined, and he finds falling into step with Tessa as easy as can be. They talk about everything and nothing — about her brothers and sister and his siblings too, about the nieces and nephews and families they don’t see nearly enough. She tells him she grew up in London, and he asks if she’s ever heard of Ilderton and she tells him she had a skating lesson there once, when she was six.

He doesn’t try to dwell on what could have been if they’d met properly, at his family’s rink. Instead, he takes her hand in his and gives it a squeeze and Scott smiles when she makes no effort to let go.

All the cafés are closed by the time they start feeling the chill but he doesn’t want to leave her, not yet. He hopes she feels the same.

It’s nearly a quarter to midnight when she stops them by a bridge and says “I have a bottle of wine at home.” It’s an unspoken invitation, and his heart hammers in his chest.

“Okay,” he says, voice husky and low. “Let’s go.”

* * *

The cab ride through the darkened streets is quiet. Their hands are still entangled between them on the carseat, and Scott can feel his pulse quickening with every block they pass. While he’d maintained a relative sense of calm throughout the evening, it’s all going straight out the window as they approach her flat.

He can’t help but think about the fact that he’s a security guard and she’s on her way to a PhD and she’s much too brilliant to make such a colossal mistake. But then he catches her soft smile out of the corner of his eye and she leans her head on his shoulder and it feels so _right_ to be near her like this and he banishes the thought.

Her apartment is exactly like her, he thinks, as she lets him inside and locks the door. It’s small and bright and full of books and art and white furniture and it’s one of the coziest places he thinks he’s ever been. She tells him to make himself at home on the sofa and he sits down as she gets a bottle of wine and two glasses.

As she pours, he studies her intently: the way her hair is coming loose from her bun, the little crease of concentration in her brow when she’s filling the glasses, the way her chest rises and falls with every breath she takes. She hands him one and there’s a blush on her cheeks. “What are you looking at?” she asks, eyes cast askance.

“You’re stunning,” he says, and she flushes crimson. He tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear and she leans closer, into his touch. She’s set her wine down and he does the same, taking it as a sign. “Can I kiss you?” he asks, leaning impossibly close.

It’s a beat before she answers. “Yes.”

He cups her cheek gently, waiting till she shifts so he has better access. Scott can feel her warm breath on his skin and her eyes flutter shut as his lips meet hers, slow and gentle. His hand moves to the back of her head, cradling her skull, and she cups his strong shoulder.

His tongue traces the seam of her lips and she parts them willingly, letting out a soft breathy noise as he licks into her mouth. He feels her inching nearer, unconsciously pressing their bodies together, as close they’ll possibly go. They kiss for what feels like forever, until they both need air, and she rests her forehead against his when they break apart.

“Scott, I—” she starts, and he just nods.

“I know.” Kissing Tessa feels like nothing he’s ever felt before, it’s like they just fit, and it makes sense to hold her in his arms. She moulds herself to his body in the most perfect way, and he wonders how he’s gone a lifetime without ever feeling this.

“I want—” she says, stopping herself.

He nods. “Me too.”

He leans in to kiss her again and lavishes attention on her neck where it meets her shoulder, sucking on the soft skin he finds there. She lets out a keening sound, high and needy, and he takes it as a sign to pick her up and carry her to the bedroom. When he deposits her on the bed, she slips a hand beneath the hem of his shirt, scratches lightly at the rippling muscle she finds there, and grins as he shudders.

She deftly undoes the buttons of his shirt and slips it off his shoulders, dropping kisses on his collarbone and pecs, watching in fascination as he shudders beneath her. He retaliates with an onslaught of kisses of his own, pushing her shirt down so he can pepper kisses to the tops of her breasts. She whimpers and it’s nearly his undoing.

She threads her hand through his hair and tugs, forcing his face up to meet hers. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” she says, on a huff, and he laughs.

“We can fix that,” he says, “but I’d counter and say that you’re wearing far too many too.”

And fix it they do. Tessa is over him, under him, surrounding him and he’s punch-drunk on the feeling. It’s a giddy kind of happiness he hasn’t felt in years, mixed with a deep-seated contentment he’s surprised by. But then again, they just fit, and he’s loath to dwell on such things when he could be focusing instead on the sounds that escape Tessa when she falls to pieces beneath him and he’s not far behind.

He’s halfway to sleep, her head resting in the crook of his neck and shoulder, when he hears her whisper. “I meant it when I said I was glad you lost your job and moved to Paris.”

He chuckles. “I’m glad too.”

The next morning, as sunlight streams through the window, Scott stretches languidly. It’s the best night’s sleep he’s had in months (and it has very little to do with the fact that he’s not due at work today). It has everything to do with the fact that these sheets are definitely higher thread-count than his own, and with the fact that this isn’t his bed, it’s Tessa’s, and he fell asleep wrapped up in her and murmuring her name.

He can hear Tessa in the washroom, and Scott has an idea. He casts the duvet to the side and artfully arranges himself on the bed, pushed up on an elbow, his head cradled in his hand. He angles his legs just so and waits. Tessa comes back into the bedroom and bursts into laughter, doubling over at the tableau before her. Scott just grins.

“Will you paint me like one of your French girls?” he asks when she catches her breath, and he winks.

Tessa snorts. “You wish.”

* * *

It’s a Thursday in October, the sky is dark again and the clouds are angrily spewing rain and thunder. Scott takes in the sound of raindrops hammering on the skylights and remembers, with a sigh, that he forgot his umbrella again on his way to work.

He checks his watch every half hour, wishing desperately for his shift to end. It’s Thursday, and he has plans. Finally, the clock strikes nine-fifteen, and he busies himself with final checks and closing up his gallery.

When the last lightbulb is extinguished, he walks down the hall of the Orsay, peeking in to another gallery three doors down. He smiles at the sight, and a look of understanding passes between him and François, who’s on duty. He walks toward the bench in the middle of the room, and his breath, like always, hitches in his throat. There’s a woman sat on the bench, petite and raven-haired, holding a sketchbook, her brow knitted together in concentration.

She’s looking at the paper and the wall and back again, as lily pads and bridges take shape before her. She’s moved on to Monet, and Scott smiles. He’s transported back to a similar scene, and it feels like it’s been lifetimes since then, and no time at all. He’s still transfixed, and she’s still more beautiful than any piece of art. But, just like last time, the gallery is about to close.

This time, Scott doesn’t clear his throat. Instead, he takes the last two steps forward and presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “Kiddo, we gotta go,” he says, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

She looks up at him with a smile and nods, packing up her things. He stops her in the darkened corridor, and she looks up at him, confusion evident in her gaze. He just smiles and leans down to capture her lips in a slow, languid kiss. “Sap,” she says, on a laugh. He hums and gives her hand a squeeze.

“But you love me,” he counters.

“Maybe just a little,” she acquiesces, and winks. She races down the hall, bursting into peals of laughter, and he’s right on her heels. He catches her wrists right by the staff door, and pulls her in for one more kiss.

They leave the gallery hand-in-hand, after he’s signed out for the week, stepping out into the darkened streets. Tessa brought an umbrella (of course she did) and he holds it over them both. “Let’s go home,” he says. She wraps an arm around him and squeezes tight.

**Author's Note:**

> alt. title: "paint me like one of your french girls." speaking of paintings, [this](http://www.edgar-degas.net/the-star.jsp) is what tessa was copying. 
> 
> comments are love. come yell at me on [tumblr](http://good-things-come-in-threes.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/_bucketofrice).


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